


23 ½ Grosvenor Square

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Car Sex, M/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-16
Updated: 2008-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:18:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley has rules. Sometimes he follows them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	23 ½ Grosvenor Square

Late in the winter of the antichrist's fifth year, the Bentley sat parked beside the American Embassy. It was the third time this week: Hell's -- and then Heaven's -- informants underestimated the singularly uniting ability of politicians to prolong international trade negotiations. It was the weather, many said. Or some weird alignment of the planet Mercury.  
  
But of course general knowledge dictated that the buffet breakfast provided to each and every chief of staff each and every morning was fantastic, grits notwithstanding.  
  
Rain drummed across the Bentley's bonnet. Fog clouded the windscreen.  
  
Aziraphale let out a long-suffering sigh.  
  
"Tired?" asked Crowley.  
  
"No."  
  
"I could put a tape on."  
  
"Do you have any Haydn?"  
  
"Sure," Crowley replied, fumbling around on floor until he found a cassette. Or at least it was cassette-shaped.  
  
It certainly wasn't Haydn.  
  
"A fitting day for it, anyway," Aziraphale said, after a moment. He put away his diary, cleaned his glasses with a fresh kerchief, and checked his watch.  
  
"If you're into cliché."  
  
Aziraphale let this pass. "And what are you supposed to do when you collect him?"  
  
Crowley shrugged. It wasn't a taboo subject. Not in the slightest. "Give him a good brushing down, I guess. See whether he's sprouted a cloven tail."  
  
Aziraphale arched a brow.  
  
"Kidding," Crowley said.  
  
"No," Aziraphale replied, a trace of wonderment seeping into his voice.  
  
"But he's not here."  
  
"Well he's in there _somewhere_. He must be. My source was quite specific."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"It's Take Your Child to Work Day."  
  
Crowley tilted his head.  
  
"Ancient American custom," Aziraphale explained, waving a distracted hand. "Or at least one which began before the invention of electronic entertainment consoles."  
  
"Oh. And I take it the immediate help gets the day off."  
  
"Except for us."  
  
"Right."  
  
"Er. And where is your... Um."  
  
"Nanny Ashtoreth? Culinary class in Fleet Street," Crowley said. "I looked into it. They're making pie. Got to stick with the classics, eh?"  
  
Aziraphale blanched. "I'm sure."  
  
"And Francis?"  
  
"Scrabble night at Westminster."  
  
"Good," said Crowley. He tapped his fingers on the wheel. And then: "Good."  
  
"D'you suppose they expect you to keep round all afternoon?"  
  
"Expect? No. But I'm sure Dagon'll be at my throat faster than a fly to jam if I decide to take an early supper."  
  
"Right." With that, Aziraphale pulled a bag of Minstrels from his pocket, slit it open with one immaculate fingernail, and munched down several chocolates.  
  
Crowley gave him a long stare.  
  
"Sorry," Aziraphale said, proffering the pack.  
  
"You can't eat those."  
  
"Come, my dear. Now's not the time for moralizing."  
  
"No, no. You can eat them in your shop, at the pictures, in the loo, but not _here_."  
  
"You have rules of etiquette for traveling in your car?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Since when?"  
  
"Since always," Crowley said impatiently. "The Bentley's not a dining room, Aziraphale. I can't believe we're even having this conversation."  
  
Aziraphale sniffed and folded the bag closed. "Really, I hardly see the issue. It's not as though I was making--"  
  
"I'd like to keep it that way." Crowley folded his arms across his chest, catalogued the contents of his jacket pockets, and slumped forward to adjust the Blaupunkt. Rain pounded against the windows. And then: "Leave it go at a raised eyebrow, eh?"  
  
"Fine," Aziraphale said, loosening his collar. He gave a knowing sort of smile. "What are the other rules?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Etiquette."  
  
"No wet shoes, for starters."  
  
"Wouldn't dream of it."  
  
Crowley _felt_ Aziraphale shift more than he saw him: a change of pressure on the seat, a lightness to the leather. There was nowhere else to go. He continued, "No rubbish in the boot."  
  
"Of course," said Aziraphale.  
  
"No derby hats." Now Aziraphale's hand was on Crowley's knee, and slowly, slowly, it traced a path towards his thigh. "No open fires."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"No werewolves," Crowley said with as much finality as he could muster, which was indeed rather little: Aziraphale began to work on Crowley's zip, fingers winding past the pants that actually weren't there after all, encircling him, bringing him out. "No..."  
  
Aziraphale looked up. "No?" He began to stroke, lightly, coaxing until Crowley was hard.  
  
"Yes. Um." Crowley grit his teeth, commanded his hips still. But hips are treacherous things: he shuddered and thrust into Aziraphale's grip. And Heaven, his hips weren't the only ones. Even from there, he could smell the chocolate on Aziraphale's lips.  
  
Aziraphale leaned forward until his neck was stretched precariously beside the steering wheel, and half of his weight rested on Crowley's lap. Then he let out a sigh, hot on Crowley's skin, and wound his tongue round the tip of Crowley's cock.  
  
"Is there a rule against this?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Mm."  
  
Treacherous. No other word for it. Aziraphale straightened, pointed a finger against the precipitation-slick glass, and let out a little cry. Crowley could only hope his answering yelp sounded more irritated than desperate.  
  
"There's our young fellow now," Aziraphale said, wiping a thumb over his bottom lip. His cheeks were flushed, but only just so, and his glasses were askew. He chuckled breathily, "Why, I do believe he's grown half a foot since I saw him last. And such an entourage. You'd think the world revolved around him."  
  
Crowley managed a cough. "Funny," he said, zipping himself up. "Great. Just great."  
  
Warlock, his father, and a gaggle of umbrella-wielding Secret Servicemen bundled off in a fleet of limousines which lurched like gloom through the gloom. And then the limousines trundled off towards Heathrow.  
  
"What happens now you've missed him?" Aziraphale asked.  
  
"I follow," said Crowley. Then, catching Aziraphale's gaze: "My flat's on the way." And with more care, "Generally."


End file.
